Friday, September 25, 2015

Celebrated as pure cinema by critics
seduced by its audiovisual virtuosity, dismissed as implausible hokum
by viewers focusing on its lurid storyline, attacked by some for its
allegedly misogynistic content, Brian DePalma's “Dressed to Kill”
(1980) offers a little bit of something for just about everyone,
either to cheer or to jeer.

My favorite part of the film is a scene
near the end when prostitute/murder witness/investor Liz Blake (Nancy
Allen) has lunch at a fancy restaurant with teenage
inventor/investigator Peter Miller (Keith Gordon). Liz cheerfully
explains to Peter the very specific details of a sex-change
operation; the words “penectomy” and “vaginoplasty” ring out
in the swanky eatery, causing an eavesdropping older woman at a
nearby table to nearly blow her pricy lunch, a vintage DePalma twist
on the Three Stooges penchant for pulverizing the wealthy dowager
with a cream pie right in the face. They slice the penis right down
the middle, you see... It doesn't quite carry the sting of the
director's all-time brilliant “Be Black, Baby” sketch from “Hi,
Mom!” (1970), but it's definitely the cheeky DePalma we fans of his
earliest work love the best.

I sense that I may have skipped a few
steps. Let's go back to Kate getting sliced by salami in the
elevator. No, not just yet. Let's start instead with Kate in the
shower which is also where the movie starts. Middle-aged Kate Miller
(Angie Dickinson) luxuriates under the hot water as she stares
longingly through the billowing steam at her hunky, muscled lover on
the other side of the bathroom. Kate likes what she sees and caresses
her most relevant and responsive body parts (provided in close-up by
Penthouse Pet Victoria Lynn Johnson) before being surprised by a
mysterious assailant who sneaks up behind her in the shower stall. He
sure has strong hands and he knows where to place them. A less
titillating surprise awaits as Kate's fantasy yields to the reality
of her husband having a “wham-bang” go at her in bed.

Kate transitions seamlessly from
morning hump to playing the doting mother to the aforementioned
Peter, a bespectacled whiz kid working feverishly on a homemade
computer for his science project. From lover to mother, Kate then
becomes a patient as she bares her soul to her very dignified
psychiatrist Dr. Elliott (Michael Caine), a confession which also
includes an attempt at seduction.

Unfulfilled by any of her sexual
encounters thus far, Kate whisks away to the art museum where she
picks up a stranger in one of the film's signature set-pieces, a
sequence involving a complex and nearly wordless exchange of furtive,
interlocking glances, tracking shots winding sinuously through
gallery chambers, and swelling operatic music by frequent De Palma
collaborator Pino Donaggio. It all concludes with a cab ride to an
extended session of afternoon delight in the pickup's apartment.
Delight turns to fright on board the elevator when a blonde woman in
a black trenchcoat appears out of nowhere (except to the very
attentive viewer) and slashes Kate repeatedly with a straight razor,
gouging her beck and shredding her face in a sequence that, at least
in the unrated version (included on this disc), leaves little to the
imagination.

A woman with a healthy libido acts on
her sexual impulses and is immediately punished for her
transgression; heck, as an added insult, just before her murder Kate
learns that her handsome stranger has a venereal disease. You can
understand the charges of misogyny leveled at the film, and you can
probably also understand the counter-argument. Like the French New
Wavers he admired so much, De Palma's films often referred primarily
to other films. The formula of shower plus female protagonist
abruptly dispatched provides an obvious link to Hitchock's “Psycho,”
of course. But as the film delineates a series of female identities
(spouse, mother, sexual being) in its opening shots, it also
recapitulates the ways in which women have traditionally been viewed
and judged by cinema practically since its inception. In De Palma's
words, a great deal of film history has involved “following a
beautiful woman around.” Often with less than pure motives.

Another fair question to ask would be
whether the film takes a sadistic stab at the audience. In a half
hour or so we get to know Kate quite well, to watch what she watches
and desire what she desires, to view her as a full and empowered
individual and then we have to watch her slashed to ribbons in gory
detail. You slice your protagonist right down the middle, you see...

Anyway, Liz Blake, wrapping up a job
with a John who offers a friendly stock tip, witnesses the final
moments of the murder and winds up the target of the razor-wielding
blonde, a patient of Dr. Elliott's who is angry about the doctor not
approving a sex-change operation from male to female. The good doctor
fields taunting phone calls from the killer while also trying to
track her down; you probably won't be too surprised to learn not all
is as it seems. Peter also turns his considerable deductive powers on
the case in order to seek justice for his mother, and the various
characters zigzag through New York with that gracefully gliding
camera (under the auspices of cinematographer Ralf Bode) tracing
circles and pacing restlessly through the urban nightscape, with some
of the finest work saved for a brilliant subway sequence which sees
Liz bounced from one threat to another all ending with a typically
out-of-the-blue De Palma flourish.

Even more than most worthwhile movies,
“Dressed to Kill” rewards multiple viewing. The roving camera
captures action staged on multiple planes. You have to watch the
subway sequence over and over to tell just who is darting in and out
of frame in the background. And when you know where the story ends
up, you can go back and see the clues strewn along the path: notice
Kate's wedding ring resting on the alarm clock, the mini-pantomime
scenes that play out in the distance in the museum, the unlikely
exclamation point on the medical form punctuating the words “venereal
disease.” And isn't it interesting how Dr. Elliott is introduced
working as his own receptionist because the woman who usually does
the job is on vacation?

If you find the action over the top, it
is surely intended to be. The Dinaggio score alone underscores the
excess welling out of so many scenes and De Palma is capable of going
for genuine thrills while also planting tongue firmly in cheek. If
that's a game-breaker for you, “Dressed to Kill” might not be the
throat-slashing good time of your dreams, but I'd encourage to focus
on the multiple treats for the eyes and ears. By any rational
definition, “Dressed to Kill” is a remarkably composed
audiovisual symphony. If you're put off by the film's portrayal of
gender dysphoria as mental illness, however, I can't say I blame you
one bit.

Video:

If you follow these sorts of kerfuffles
you might know that Criterion initially intended to release “Dressed
to Kill” in August, but the first batch of discs suffered from a
production error which led to much of the transfer looking
“squeezed.” Criterion announced a new printing with the correct
transfer would be released on Sep 8, though not all copies got to
reviewers in time for that new street date. Any copy you order from a
retailer (Criterion, Amazon, etc.) will now be correct and will
indicated “Second Printing 2015” at the bottom of the section of
the back cover copy that begins with “Under exclusive license...”
If you somehow get a copy that says “First Printing 2015” you
have the defective version. The rest of this review will refer to the
corrected Second Printing.

Image detail on this 1080p transfer is
immaculate with a very pleasing fine-grain structure visible
throughout. The colors are slightly muted though red is still very
red when it needs to be. With the production snafu fixed, there are
no complaints to make about another excellent Criterion high-def
transfer.

“Dressed to Kill” had to be
whittled down somewhat to avoid an X-rating on its initial release
and was further mutilated (more understandably in this case) for its
television broadcast. This is the unrated cut as preferred by
director Brian De Palma. See below for a few extras that address the
different versions.

Audio:

Other DVD releases have included a 5.1
surround track, but Criterion sticks solely with the original
monaural track in linear PCM Mono. The lossless audio is crisp,
clear, and efficient. Whatever it lacks in surround depth it makes up
for in clarity; the film doesn't always employ a naturalistic sound
design, omitting or including effects for, well, certain effects.
Dinaggio's potent score is a vital part of the film and sounds great
in lossless audio. Optional English subtitles support the English
audio.

Extras:

Wow. Criterion has gone above and
beyond with 13 (!) separate extras, most of which are fairly
substantial.

The first batch of extras consist of
newly recorded interview with Brian De Palma (19 mm.), Nancy Allen
(16 min.), producer George Litto (12 min.), and composer Pino
Donaggio (16 min.) All are obvious inclusions considering the
players' central roles in the film and the best of the batch is
definitely De Palma who, surprise surprise, speaks about the
influence of Alfred Hitchcock.

Somewhat more surprising (and
pleasantly so) are the other two new interviews. First up is
Penthouse model Victoria Lynn Johnson (9 min.) who served as Angie
Dickinson's body double in the shower scene; she talks about De
Palma's awkwardness asking for certain changes (dying the hair...
down there) and also how her initial request to not be credited
didn't keep her participation a secret. She doesn't seem to mind.
Next is Stephen Sayadian (10 min.), the photographic art director for
the original movie poster which played a central part in the
publicity campaign. Sayadian started working at Hustler before
striking out on his own.

“The Making of 'Dressed to Kill'”
(2001, 44 min.) is an older documentary that you may have seen
before. It's pretty vanilla, consisting mostly of interviews with
cast and crew rehashing familiar stories about production, but it's
of some interest.

“Slashing 'Dressed to Kill'” (2001,
10 min.) discusses the cuts needed to get the film from an X-rating
to an R-rating and also touches briefly on the protests by feminists
groups at the time.

“An Appreciation by Keith Gordon”
(2001, 6 min.) provides the actor an opportunity to analyze some of
the more interesting techniques and flourishes in the movie. It's a
sharp observation that proves that good films need to be viewed more
than once before they can really be understood.

The disc also includes a gallery of
Storyboards used for shooting and a “Version Comparison” (5 min.)
which plays split-screen video of the Unrated version (included on
this disc) and the R-rated version (released in theaters) as well as
the TV Broadcast version. It includes a few sequences such as the
shower scene and the elevator scene.

The copious extras collection wraps up
with a Theatrical Trailer (2 min.)

The slim fold-out insert booklet
includes an appreciate essay by critic Michael Koresky.

Final Thoughts:

I don't think I spent enough time
talking about how great Pino Donaggio's score is. It's great. Trust
me. Or don't, and listen for yourself. I still like “Greetings”
(1968) and “Hi, Mom!” the best, but “Dressed to Kill” is
among my favorite De Palma films. This corrected Second Printing (see
Video section for details) features a great high-def transfer and the
extras are almost as excessive (in a good way) as parts of the film.

The road to tragedy is marked by
comedic mileposts in “Mister Johnson” (1990), a film built out of
incongruities.

A title card informs us that the action
begins in “West Africa 1923” but the film takes place (and was
shot almost entirely in) Nigeria, northern Nigeria to be more
specific. The constantly smiling Mister Johnson (Maynard Eziashi), a
transplant from southern Nigeria, looks resplendent in his
immaculately white English-style suit and fancy English-style shoes
as he proudly rides his English-style bicycle among the locals he
describes as “savages.” Of course he tends to use the disparaging
term only in the presence of his English bosses, including his “good
friend” Mr. Rudbeck (Pierce Brosnan); he has nothing but praise for
his countrymen in his leisure time. Praise, vows of eternal loyalty,
promises to pay off debts in the future. Mr. Johnson adapts readily
to any social situation.

Mister Johnson (the only name he is
ever called, even by his wife) considers himself an Englishman
through and through, often referring to the country as “home” and
striving to conduct himself as a proper British gentleman at all
times. This perception sets up many of the film's wry observations
about the total incompatibility of cultures. As the beaming Mister
Johnson marries his beloved Bamu (a radiant Bella Enahoro), he
eagerly answers the presiding chaplain with the standard “I do.”
When Bamu is asked whether she “takes this man” she turns with a
confused look to her father and asks, “Didn't he give you the
money?” They both shrug and endure the superfluous white man's
ceremony.

Director Bruce Beresford (in his first
film after the Oscar-winning “Driving Miss Daisy”) and
screenwriter William Boyd, adapting a 1939 novel by British writer
Joyce Cary, may mine humor from Mister Johnson's precarious perch
between two worlds, but they never make fun of him. It would almost
exceedingly difficult to do so. Eziashi, a London-born actor of
Nigerian descent who makes his film debut here, drives every scene
with his undaunted optimism. Though Mister Johnson is a petty crook
and even a bit of a con-man, he is incapable of lying because he
invariably believes whatever he is saying regardless of its
tangential relation to reality. It's true while he says it, and what
else matters? Tomorrow is a nebulous concept composed entirely of
infinite promise, a promise that can only be achieved by embracing
each moment to its fullest and seeing every possibility as a
certainty.

This makes Mister Johnson the oddest of
protagonists, an ambitious man who will do whatever he needs to in
order to achieve his goals and yet somehow remains sincerely pleasant
and well-meaning at all times. Naturally, he is doomed.

Doomed, but resilient. Mister Johnson's
can-do attitude sees him bounce back from adversity time and again.
His cushy job as Rudbeck's personal assistant ends abruptly when he
is scapegoated for an accounting irregularity, but he easily slides
into his next gig, working for Sargy Gollup, a violent, racist trader
played with loathsome verve and surprising sympathy by Edward
Woodward. Once work with Gollup dries up, Mister Johnson finagles his
way back into Rudbeck's good graces and helps his “good friend”
build a road from their small village to a major trade route a
hundred miles to the north. It will be a great success for Rudbeck,
not so much for the village. Or for Mister Johnson. Friendships built
on fundamental inequities invariably claim victims. I'll leave the
ending for you to discover yourself; if you're at all familiar with
Beresford's 1980 film “Breaker Morant” you have some indication
of what's coming.

“Mister Johnson” was the first
American film shot in northern Nigeria, providing a logistical
challenge that was deftly managed by independent producer Michael
Fitzgerald. “Mister Johnson” was really Fitzgerald's baby, or
more properly it was the dream project of one of Fitzgerald's
mentors, the legendary director John Huston (Fitzgerald produced
Huston's “Wise Blood” and “Under the Volcano.”) Huston
admired the Joyce Cary novel and wanted to film the adaptation, but
never got around to it before his death in 1987. Fitzgerald wouldn't
let the dream die with Huston and quickly got to work on realizing
the project, hiring Beresford and Eziashi while also finding a
crucial in-country collaborator in Nigerian cultural powerhouse Chief
Hubert Ogunde who made the entire production possible in a country
with limited infrastructure for a major motion picture shoot.

Cinematographer Peter James takes full
advantage of the location shooting, rendering Nigeria in lush green
and golden hues; the sun is a constant, defining presence even in the
close quarters of the film's grueling denouement. Sets constructed
for the shoot look entirely convincing (at least to these Western
eyes) and, aside from most of the major roles, the film was cast
predominantly with local talent.

Gorgeous photography aside, the film's
main feature is Maynard Eziashi, whose pearly smile and hyperactive
eyes that hint at a thousand simultaneous schemes helped him earn a
justified Silver Bear for Best Actor at the Berlin Film Festival.
Mister Johnson is an unforgettable character, trapped between two
worlds but prisoner of neither. I don't know that the film has
anything particularly new or complex to say about colonial occupation
beyond its obvious cruelty and absurdity and maybe it's a bit too
pretty for its own good. However, if the film's rambling episodic
structure leaves its sociopolitical critique somewhat unfocused, it
leaves us plenty of time to walk the same sad and funny trail as
Mister Johnson; thanks to Eziashi's magnetic performance, that's more
than enough.

Video:

The film is presented in what Criterion
describes as “the director's preferred aspect ratio of 1.85:1”
which I gather differs from the original theatrical release (1.66:1
according to IMDB). The 1080p transfer is very rich in color with
golden hues particularly radiant. The grain structure is subtle and
consistent throughout, and it's hard to tell whether it's just a bit
too subtle to present a sense of immersive depth. Image quality is
sharp throughout. Overall, it's a very satisfying high-def transfer
for a film that has not always been treated well either in theatrical
or home distribution over the years.

Audio:

The LPCM 2.0 surround mix is crisp and
does a fine job of presenting a fairly straightforward audio design
that doesn't play around with a lot of effects. It's mostly
centrally-located dialogue and music (by former New Wave icon Georges
Delerue) and all sounds fine in a lossless mix. Subtitles for the
non-English dialogue are a non-optional part of the print. Optional
English subtitles for the English dialogue are also offered.

Extras:

Criterion has included a handful of
newly record interviews, starting with director Bruce Beresford (15
min.) who discusses the few years he spent in Nigeria in the '60s as
well as some of the challenges of shooting in the country. Producer
Michael Fitzgerald (11 min.) elaborates further on the challenges
while also discussing the film's genesis in his days working with
John Huston and how he fought hard for Eziashi as the lead.

The interviews continue with the two
main actors. Maynard Eziashi (12 min.) talks a bit about his early
stage work and how he answered a casting ad for this film without
having any idea it was going to be a “major motion picture.”
Pierce Brosnan (9 min.) also shares some fond memories regarding the
movie.

Aside from the interviews, the only
other extra is a Theatrical Trailer (3 min.) in somewhat worn-out
condition.

The slim fold-out insert booklet
includes an essay by author and film professor Neil Sinyard.

Final Thoughts:

I had come to think that “Breaker
Morant” and “Tender Mercies” (1983) were the only Bruce
Beresford film I really cared for, which made “Mister Johnson” a
pleasant surprise. The extras aren't particularly substantive but the
45 minutes of interviews help fill in a few details. Maynard Eziashi
is really exceptional in a movie that may not be a masterpiece, but
is certainly worth a recommendation.

Thursday, September 24, 2015

(On Friday Sep 25, 2015, TCM will be showing Bresson films most of the day. The marathon ends with "Au hasard Balthazar" at 6:15 PM Eastern. I am re-posting my 2005 review, one of the earliest ones I ever wrote, to encourage you to tune in or at least set your DVR. The blog also includes reviews of "A Man Escaped" and "Pickpocket" which are part of TCM's Bresson-o-thon as well.)

“Acting is for the theater, which is
a bastard art.” - Robert Bresson

Robert Bresson (1901-1999) produced one
of the most singular and challenging bodies of work in the history of
cinema. He ruthlessly stripped all the extraneous components from his
films until only the most essential elements remained. Bresson’s
films are austere, meticulous and precise; the term “minimalism”
does not do them justice, they can only be described as “Bressonian.”
Some view his films as slow and arduous while others see them as the
“purest” movies ever made: the Bresson cult is a fanatical one
and I proudly count myself a member.

One of the defining aspects of
Bresson’s work is his approach to acting. Bresson (after his first
few features) did not employ traditional actors but rather used
“models” – non-professional actors he trained to speak and act
as inexpressively as possible. The typical Bresson model has a blank,
impassive look (“the Bresson face”) and moves slowly and
deliberately. Bresson often shot numerous takes in order to exhaust
his actors so that their actions and line readings would become as
mechanical and automatic as possible. He sought a performance style
devoid of inflection; a model does not “look longingly” but
merely looks, does not “stand nervously” but merely stands; the
goal was action, not acting (method actors need not apply). Even in
highly emotional moments, the characters speak and act perfunctorily,
and sometimes their detachment seems at odds with the events being
depicted. Furthermore, Bresson filmed these automaton-like models in
flat, frontal stagings (almost always using a 50mm lens) with limited
camera movement.

What was Bresson’s purpose in
draining all the traditional elements of drama from his films? Critic
James Quandt describes it best: “(Bresson) produced a cinema of
paradox, in which the denial of emotion creates emotionally
overwhelming works (and) minimalism becomes plenitude.” Fanatical
restraint and precision unleash depths of feeling that cannot be
accessed through standard drama and pathos, or at least that was
Bresson's belief. The non-actor models are crucial to this endeavor;
any signs of theatrical, self-conscious acting break the spell.

Bresson found his ideal model in
Balthazar, the donkey who is the protagonist of “Au hasard
Balthazar” (1966), a central work by one of the greatest directors
in the history of the cinema. Jean-Luc Godard famously claimed that
the film conveyed “the world in an hour and a half,” and it could
also be described as the world contained in a donkey’s eyes.
Balthazar’s blank, impenetrable stare carries an infinite depth of
meaning simply because it is so fundamentally unreadable. Balthazar
is unlike any other movie animal you have seen, in large part because
he is simply an animal. He is not cute or smart or quirky; he is a
donkey and nothing more, which is to say he is everything.

Some have described “Au hasard
Balthazar” as a film told from a donkey’s point of view, but this
is not accurate. The film does follow Balthazar’s life from birth
to death, but only in the beginning and end does the story directly
concern him. At first, Balthazar is cherished as a pet by adoring
children who baptize him, but his peace is short-lived as he is
whipped, yoked, and put to work. He will spend most of the rest of
the film passing helplessly from one sadistic or indifferent owner to
another.

His first owner Marie (Anne Wiazemsky,
who, a year later, became the second Mrs. Jean-Luc Godard) dotes over
him, but she is a lazy, self-absorbed girl. In one scene, she
decorates Balthazar with branches and flowers, making local tough guy
Gerard (Francois Lafarge) jealous. He and his gang beat Balthazar
cruelly while Marie watches in hiding; her affection for the animal
does not extend to risking her safety for him. Later, Marie falls in
love with Gerard and forgets all about the poor little donkey.

Abused by Gerard and abandoned by
Marie, Balthazar eventually collapses from exhaustion. Gerard
volunteers to “end his misery,” but the donkey is rescued by
Arnold (Jean-Claude Guilbert), the town lush. Life gets better for
Balthazar, but only briefly. Arnold is kind when sober but vicious
when drunk, and he beats Balthazar savagely with a bottle. Balthazar
escapes to a circus where he is briefly a star, but later he is sold
to a wealthy miser who is so stingy that he barely feeds the donkey
and won’t even buy him a proper saddle harness; it is more
economical simply to kill the beast if it gets too sick to work.

Through all these ordeals, Balthazar is
merely a passive observer. The humans’ stories spin all around him,
and he takes almost no part in them, hovering constantly on the
periphery of our perception. When the gendarmes come for Arnold, we
see Balthazar through a window as he grazes in a field; in another
scene, Balthazar stands idly at a hitching post as rowdy youths set
off firecrackers in the street. In fact, the stories could easily
take place without Balthazar’s presence at all, yet time and again
Bresson returns to shots of the donkey merely standing and watching.
He serves as a mute and uncomprehending witness to the human dramas
that surround him and which, ultimately, determine his fate.

The cruelty of the humans seems all the
more terrible because of the detached quality of the performances:
Marie’s slack-jawed look and slumped shoulders, Gerard’s clipped
movements, Arnold’s near immobility at times. Their callousness is
a thoughtless byproduct of indifference. Through its restraint, “Au
hasard Balthazar” accumulates an extraordinary power, and
Balthazar, even though he seldom actually “does” anything,
becomes one of the most memorable characters in all of cinema,
achieving a sublime grace through the terrible suffering he endures.
This is Quandt’s paradox again: the denial of emotion produces
overwhelming emotionality. “Overwhelming” is the key word here.
“Au hasard Balthazar” possesses a potent affective force that
will stick with you for days, weeks, maybe even the rest of your
life.

Bresson’s films demand an active
audience. Bresson stated, “The flatter the image is, the less it
expresses, the more easily it is transformed in contact with other
images.” The flat images can also be transformed by the audience; a
key to the power of Bresson’s work is that the emptiness of the
image invites the viewer to fill it with his or her own meaning.
Balthazar’s big, round, empty eyes are the film’s most enduring
image and you will either see in them great profundity or merely the
vacant stare of a dumb animal; which you see depends in large part on
your degree of engagement with the movie. Bresson’s films are
living texts which change with each viewing and yield great rewards
to the attentive, involved watcher.

Bresson was a master of rhythm and
tone, and few directors ended their films on such perfect notes as he
consistently did. I will not spoil the ending of this deceptively
simple story that improbably transforms into a spiritual journey save
to assert that is one of the most poignant and moving endings I have
ever seen. On the first viewing, I was shaken by the final scene, and
on the third viewing I wept openly, not out of sadness but from
something more powerful. I can only describe it as the sense of
witnessing the infinite or perhaps the ineffable (I have a similar
reaction to the ending of “2001: A Space Odyssey which I have
always thought of as a spiritual film for the atheist.)

Some commentators (most notably Paul
Schrader) have described Bresson as a transcendental director. I
don’t agree with that label, but if there is a transcendent moment
in Bresson’s films, it is here, as this gentle little donkey kneels
down in a field, with a flock of sheep milling about him, the bells
on their collars chiming a mournful chorus. It is an ending both
beautiful and terrible to behold and I often think it is the single
greatest achievement world cinema has ever produced.

Video:

The DVD presents the film in its
original theatrical aspect ratio of 1.66:1. The black-and-white
photography is crisp, with richt contrast. Often when we describe
cinematography as beautiful, we mean that the film offers gorgeous,
ravishing imagery: sweeping landscapes, deep focus, etc. Such
pictures would be out of place in a Bresson film, yet the photography
is beautiful nonetheless and the new transfer more than does justice
to it.

(Added 9/24/15: However, a decade after
Criterion released this fine DVD, we still await a North American
region Blu-ray upgrade. Here's hoping we don't have to wait much
longer.)

Audio:

The DVD is presented in Dolby Digital
Mono. I did not even attempt to describe the soundtrack in my review
because it would require at least another thousand words just to
scratch the surface. Bresson made use of sound perhaps more
effectively and expressively than any other director (only Kubrick
and Lynch spring to mind immediately as contenders) and it is
probably not possible to preserve the full texture of the sound on a
DVD, but this sound transfer is certainly an admirable effort. The
sound effects are well-mixed and separated. The film makes notable
use of Schubert’s sparse and moving Piano Sonata no. 20 which
sounds just right here. Optional English language subtitles support
the audio.

Extras:

If ever a Criterion release desperately
called for a commentary track, it is “Au hasard Balthazar,” but
we do not get one here. However, the other extras are worthwhile
offerings. A twenty-minute interview with scholar Donald Richie
(getting a rare chance to talk about a non-Japanese film) serves as
an excellent introduction into the Bressonian oeuvre.

“Un metteur en ordre: Robert Bresson”
(70 min.) is a 1966 French television program about Bresson and the
making of “Au hasard Balthazar.” Godard, Louis Malle and the cast
of the film also appear. It is clear from watching this extra that
Bresson was already firmly established as a cult director whose
status bordered on beatification.

Final Thoughts:

In the spirit of Bresson, I will keep
it simple: “Au hasard Balthazar” is a masterpiece. Possibly the
greatest film ever made. I undersell it by a wide margin, of course.

(On Friday Sep 25, 2015, TCM will be showing five Robert Bresson films beginning with "Diary of a Country Priest" at 11:45 A.M. Eastern and continuing with his brilliant "A Man Escaped" at 1:45 PM Eastern. I hope this re-post of my 2013 review encourages you to take advantage of the opportunity to either sit down or set your DVR for one of the remarkable movies ever made. And if you have time check out my reviews of "Pickpocket" and "Au hasard Balthazar" as well, which will also be playing during TCM's fantastic Friday schedule. And if you're reading this later, well, you can always check out this great Blu-ray from Criterion.)

Robert Bresson's specific theological
beliefs are difficult to pin down, which is not surprising
considering that the director doled out autobiographical information
with an eye dropper. He believed his films should speak for
themselves.

Like many critics I have previously
written that Bresson believed in predestination, but the more I study
his work (he preferred the term “striving”), the less certain I
am of such a simplistic claim. Bresson was, at times, happy to
embrace the perception that he was a Catholic filmmaker and, more
specifically, that he was sympathetic to the Jansenist belief that we
are all essentially “fallen” but that a select few are scheduled
for salvation. Everyone else is kind of screwed, but even the chosen
ones must struggle to achieve the grace that has been gifted to them.

Bresson later rejected the Jansenist
label and resisted any systematic effort to view his films through
the lens of a single philosophy. It's also likely that his beliefs
(or lack thereof) evolved over his lengthy career. Regardless of his
personal stance, with “A Man Escaped” (1956), Bresson clearly
planned to make a film that embodied the theme of predestination: “I
want to show this miracle: an invisible hand over the prison,
directing events and making something succeed for one person and not
another.”

The
film, written and directed by Bresson, is based on the memoirs of
André
Devigny, a French resistance fighter who was imprisoned by German
occupation forces at Fort Montluc in Lyon, France. Devigny escaped
from the escape-proof prison, and his memoirs provide a no-frills,
pragmatic account of his daring feat, making it a perfect choice for
Bresson who follows the source material fairly closely though,
inevitably, slanting it towards his own focus (it's worth noting that
Bresson was also a prisoner of war though he revealed few details
about his ordeal.)

Devigny is renamed
Fontaine and is played by non-professional actor Francois Leterier
who, like all the cast members, delivers most of his lines in the
flat, uninflected style so closely identified with Bresson. When we
first meet him, he is handcuffed in the back seat of a car driven by
German security on the way to Fort Montluc. He almost immediately
attempts to escape, is re-captured, and beaten. He will try yet again
before he is even in his prison cell. Once there, he takes a little
more time to size up his surroundings, but there's no doubt about
what his primary goal is, or about the outcome. If the full French
title “A Man Condemned To Death Who Escaped” doesn't give the
ending away, the fact that the film is accompanied by Fontaine's
past-tense voice-over should clue you in.

Bresson wasn't
interested in narrative suspense, but he certainly wanted to create
tension. He achieves it marvelously by refining his cinematographic
style to attune viewers to a kind of first-person cinema. Virtually
every shot and, just as importantly, every sound we hear reflects
Fontaine's immediate sensory experience. Every inch of Fontaine's
cell is clearly delineated, and the puny handful of objects in his
world achieve a talismanic quality: the nub of a hidden pencil
represents his defiance, a hastily concealed spoon becomes his
literal and metaphorical key to freedom. The constant scraping of the
spoon against the thick, rotting wood of his cell door dominates the
film's action for a boldly lengthy stretch, one of several evocative
sounds (painstakingly isolated and recorded in post-production) that
make “A Man Escaped” a unique auditory experience. I've never
heard anything like it... except in other Bresson films.

By focusing
ruthlessly on such quotidian, sensual details, Bresson immerses us
completely in Fontaine's world, but this is more than just a highly
distilled prison escape tale. It becomes apparent that Fort Montluc
is, indeed, as escape proof as its reputation suggests, except for
the prisoner who has help from the outside, or perhaps from above. A
series of coincidences pile up: a fastidious guard happens not to
check Fontaine's jacket pocket one day, a mysterious package arrives
from an unidentified source and provides the material necessary to
continue the escape plan, a second prisoner is assigned to Fontaine's
cell just as he realizes he can't make it over the wall without an
accomplice.

Bresson has no
apparent interest in explaining these mysterious circumstances: he's
more interested in the mystery itself, the idea that one man would
catch all the breaks (or blessings, if your prefer) and that another
wouldn't. The film's alternate title is a Biblical allusion, “The
Wind Blows Where It Wills.” Fontaine is no charity case, however.
He needs fate on his side, but he has to be ingenious and persistent
to take advantage of it. At one point, Bresson planned to call the
movie “Aide-toi” or “Help Yourself” and Fontaine states it
more plainly, “It would be too easy if God handled everything.”
Of course, there's nothing wrong with easy.

Since “A Man
Escaped” provides us with the rare unambiguously happy ending in
Bresson's oeuvre (the man escapes), it's tempting to view the idea of
an “invisible hand” over the prison as a source of inspiration.
Bresson definitely emphasizes the ways in which Fontaine's dogged
optimism inspires his fellow prisoners who move from a state of
defeated acceptance to one of burgeoning hope. However, consider the
element of caprice implied. What if the wind blows right past you, or
blows you into a ditch? What kind of sick mind would make things
“succeed for one person and not another”? Bresson would later
build stories around protagonists (like Mouchette and the donkey
Balthazar) who find out how rough it can be to be born under a bad
sign, which explains why many critics believe that Bresson became
increasingly despairing throughout his career. Bresson, of course,
resisted the notion: “I see myself as lucid rather than
pessimistic.”

“A
Man Escaped” is not pessimistic, but it is sure as heck lucid.
Bresson strove to strip down his cinema to its barest essentials, and
he had already all but perfected the elements of an idiosyncratic
style that can be described as nothing other than Bressonian even
with this early feature. He knew precisely what he wanted audiences
to see and hear, and scrubbed everything else from his audiovisual
canvas (his term was “cinematograph.”) The effect is startling,
sometimes disorienting, and an unqualified triumph. “A Man Escaped”
is not just the greatest prison escape film ever made, it is one of
the greatest films of any kind ever made. And the coolest thing is,
Bresson would get even better.

Video:

The film is
presented in its original 1.33;1 aspect ratio. “A Man Escaped”
was previously available in Region 1 only on a bare-bones 2004 SD
release by New Yorker Films. The SD transfer was adequate, but with
plenty of flaws. Criterion's version runs at 100 minutes vs. the 96
minutes of the New Yorker release which means the New Yorker was a
PAL speed-up.

According to
Criterion, “This new digital transfer was created in 2K
resolution... from the original 35 mm camera negative at Eclair
Laboratories in Epinay-sur-Seine, France.”

The improvement
over the New Yorker SD is remarkable even though this isn't the very
best of Criterion's 1080p transfers. Most of the damage visible in
the old SD has been cleaned up here, though it is not flawless. You
can definitely see more detail in the darker shots and you can make
out more detail on the walls of Fontaine's cell: perhaps this is why
we get subtitles for some of the writing where we didn't get them
before. The picture isn't quite as grainy as I would have expected,
perhaps suggesting a little extra digital cleanup throughout.

Audio:

The linear PCM
mono track is of vital importance in a film where the sound design
carries so much of the narrative weight. The lossless track is up to
the task, preserving the clear pinging of streetcars off-screen and,
of course, that scraping of the spoon in vivid detail, each sound as
isolated and, sometimes, as hollow and artificial sounding as it
needs to be. Optional English subtitles support the French audio.

Extras:

The New Yorker DVD
only had a trailer. Criterion has more than made up for that.

The copious extras
cover ground that will be familiar to Bresson aficionados, but which
can serve as accessible primers for viewers relatively new to his
body of cinema.

“Bresson:
Without a Trace” (67 min.) is the much-quoted Bresson interview
conducted by Cahiers critic Francois Weyergans in 1965; it originally
aired as an episode of “Cineastes de notre temps.” Bresson had
the strange quality of being supremely confident in his ideas, but
always seeming nervous, even apologetic, on camera. This editor has
chosen to chop up much of the interview into pieces (especially in
the first ten minutes) which gives the impression of Bresson
delivering a series of aphorisms, something familiar to anyone who
owns a dog-eared copy of Bresson's “Notes on the Cinematographer.”
It also includes some very long clips (several minutes) from Bresson
films. Bresson also proves prescient in his uncharacteristically
effusive phrase of “Goldfinger” - “It wouldn't take much for
'Goldfinger' to become an important film, with its inventiveness, its
movement towards the future.”

“The
Road to Bresson” (1984, 56 min.) is a documentary by Leo de Boer
and Jurrien Rood. I've never quite gotten through my barely visible
bootleg copy of this, so it's a thrill to have it available in a
watchable format. The two Dutch filmmakers recount their intermittent
efforts to speak to Bresson during the publicity for his final film
“L'argent” (1983), mostly involving frustrated attempts to get
the hotel operator to patch them through to the director's room. A
lot of screen time is also devoted to interviews by directors Louis
Malle, Paul Schrader, and Andrei Tarkovsky as well as actress
Dominique Sanda. And we get a sort-of guest appearance by Orson
Welles.

“The
Essence of Forms” (2010, 46 min.) is a recent documentary by
Pierre-Henri Gibert. This feature includes interviews with Francois
Leterrier (who played Fontaine), director Bruno Dumont,
cinematographer Pierre Lhomme, and others. Leterrier's commentary is
the most interesting, as he provides even more insight into Bresson's
labor-intensive way of recording sound in post-production.

“Functions
of Film Sound” (2012, 20 minutes) is a somewhat unusual feature in
which actor Dan Stewart reads from a well-known chapter of “Film
Art” by David Bordwell and Kristin Thompson. They've contributed
some of the finest writing about Bresson's use of sound. However, I'm
not sure just how successful this presentation is since Stewart
speaks over much of the sound in the film clips being shown. Still,
it's interesting and I hope it motivates people to seek out the
excellent original text.

The disc also
includes an obstinate three minute Trailer that seems like a dare to
audience: the last half is just a static shot of a stone wall at
Montluc.

The 16-page insert
booklet features an essay by author Tony Pipolo whose “Robert
Bresson: A Passion for Film” is essential reading.

Final Thoughts:

I recently taught
a month-long course on the films of Bresson. I came prepared to
defend against the usual charges: that Bresson is too austere, too
opaque, too difficult. As it turns out, I didn't have to defend
anything; they really liked the movies. Part of this was the luck of
the draw; I was blessed with a class full of curious, engaged movie
fans who were up to the challenge of watching something different in
an active, attentive manner. I think it helped to start with “A Man
Escaped,” which provides some familiar markers (an identifiable
genre, a protagonist with a clear goal) that aren't always present in
Bresson's later films. I would never dissuade anyone from watching
any Bresson film with the elitist claim that he's only “suited to
certain tastes.” How would I know? I do believe that anyone who's
eager to dive in should start here, or possibly with “Pickpocket.”
But, no, start here. You'll be hooked.

And since
“Bresson: Without a Trace” makes such a strong introduction to
the director (“The Road to Bresson” is not far behind) and his
working methods, this impressive Criterion release is the go-to
source for anyone starting their Bresson journey.

Tuesday, September 1, 2015

(44 years ago today, on Sep 1, 1971, the Pirates fielded MLB's first all-minority lineup with Dock Ellis on the mound. This seems like good enough of an excuse to re-post my 2014 review of this nifty documentary about one of baseball's most memorable stars.)

Dock Ellis won 138 games in the major
leagues, started an all-star game, and earned a World Series ring.
But Dock Ellis will forever be known for pitching a no-hitter while
(allegedly) tripping on LSD. As Ellis told and re-told the much-loved
story, he couldn't even see the batters and just pitched to the
reflective tape catcher Jerry May wore on his fingers. “High as a
Georgia pine,” he walked eight and hit a man; trust Dock Ellis to
pitch a no-hitter in his own style.

While “No No: A Dockumentary”
(2014) shows us there is much more to Dock Ellis than just his June
12, 1970 gem against the Padres (yes, no-hitters pitched against the
Padres still count officially) it still takes this cherished legend
as its primary inspiration. It was neither the first nor the last
time Dock (his given name, by the way) took the mound while under the
influence of illegal substances.

Ellis's career (1968-1979) was a
constant binge on LSD, vodka, and especially greenies, the
amphetamines in widespread use in major-league baseball during the
'60s and '70s. Ellis claims he would grab a fistful of pills from a
bowl in the clubhouse, toss them in the air and take the ones that
landed standing up... and then take the rest as needed. He enjoyed
the night life too and was fortunate to find the perfect home with
the party-animal Pirates headlined by Willie Stargell and Ellis's
roommate and mentor Roberto Clemente. Fans of the team will enjoy the
numerous interviews with Bucco stalwarts like Al Oliver (one of
Dock's closest friends), Manny Sanguillen, Bruce Kison, and others.

First-time feature documentary director
Jeff Radice plays the drug angle for the combination of awe and
stoner humor that has usually accompanied the legend of Dock Ellis,
but it's only fun and games until somebody gets hurt. The laughs stop
quickly when we learn that Ellis choked his first wife Paula (she
wisely ditched him immediately) and later threatened to shoot his
second wife Austine during a night-long ordeal as he raged after
being released by the Pirates. According to the movie, Ellis took the
second incident as a wake-up call, checked himself into rehab, and
embarked on an unlikely post-playing career as an advocate for
substance abuse treatment for professional athletes and a drug
counselor in prisons.

Whether you buy the final act
redemption story as neatly as presented or not, Ellis emerges from
the movie as a complex and thoughtful character. He loved to say and
do outrageous things, but seldom did so without a calculated purpose.
If there's a common thread to the controversies this self-described
“angry black man” generated on a regular basis (I'll leave you to
discover them in the movie in case you don't already know) it's that
he didn't want anybody telling him what to do; not fans, not the
press, and certainly not his employers. Ellis's defiant message to
his teams was to watch how he played on the field and not to worry
about anything else.

The documentary also suggests a
sensitive, almost artistic side to Ellis. One of the stranger aspects
about one of baseball's strangest careers is that Dock's biography
would be written by future poet laureate Donald Hall who spotted
something unique in the outspoken pitcher. He wasn't the only one.
Jackie Robinson was inspired to write Ellis an appreciative letter in
which he cheered him for standing up for his values. Dock tries to
read the text of the letter, but can't make it to the end as he
breaks up in tears. The movie probably wouldn't have been made if not
for the legendary no-no, but it's an enduring and endearing moment
like that which makes you understand why Radice and his team were
eager to devote years to telling his remarkable story.

I'd have loved a little more game
footage to see more of Dock Ellis at work, but “No No: A
Dockumentary” is a satisfying and engaging portrait of an American
original.